


Divinity Beneath

by toughpill



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Gay, M/M, PRINCE!LEVI, Servant!Eren, Slow Burn, Slow Burn Eren/Levi, ereri
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:35:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22123453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toughpill/pseuds/toughpill
Summary: In which Eren is an apothecary servant for the royal bloodline amidst a throne change.[WILL BE A LONGER SERIES]
Relationships: Ereri - Relationship, Levi Ackerman/Eren Jäger, Levi/Eren
Comments: 6
Kudos: 39





	1. Transfusion

He didn’t quite know how it had happened. 

A regal body had floated in the bathe pool of the Vindicate, face down with torn and bloodied clothing. Screams and movement echoed throughout the main room, chaos injected into the space as expensive vases were knocked over, various servants fleeing. 

Eren was left defenseless. 

Deep crimson seeped out around motionless King Benedict, melding with the drifting petals seemingly drowning in the water. His hair had been cut with a sharp metal sword, falling around his languid shoulders and flowing in the tainted bath. Its sheath sank completely to the bottom, the glimmering silver metal out of sight. 

The guards, the servants, his killer - everyone understood that beloved Benedict was lifeless, that his power as monarch now wired into the man above him. He’d been dethroned. 

As Eren looked up at the man standing over the blood bath, he found the face of the reborn monarch; King Cyryl, synthesized out of pure rage and violence. Eren didn’t understand the volume of the situation as he stood there, broken tea pot in hand, staring at King Cyryl’s victoriously bloodied visage. The servant’s body was paralyzed in place, drinking in everything that had unraveled before him. 

He didn’t feel pained or broken as many partial commoners would. Instead he braced an ambivalence of fear and apprehension. What would come next of the new King was uncertain, and standing before him now, pouring ginseng into the cup between Cyryl’s slick hands, his mind was numb and unbothered. It had been a day since the slaughter, and the nation was forced to adjust; Eren had done so quickly, not losing a blink of sleep over the regime change. He finished pouring the drink and bowed his head in motion to await further orders. 

As royal protocol goes, members of the Vindicate, and those who serve the monarchs, must bow perpetually—that is, until ordered otherwise by one with a position in the bloodline. He remained bent at the waist, stuck at a perfect ninety degree angle while the King spoke to his advisors. He had apparently forgotten about Eren’s presence. Or, more likely, he didn’t care. 

“He will arrive today,” Cyryl’s voice laid over everything in its path with finality, the decorated room ringing with its timber—almost as loud as the glimmering metals that adorned the walls and throne alike. “his counterparts will accompany him.” King Cyryl continued. 

The advisors spoke nothing, uneasy around their new ruler. 

“Are their quarters prepared?”

“Y-yes, majesty,” the royal Astronomer assured, voice trembling. 

“In separate wings of the palace, yes?” 

“Yes, highness, we have arranged as you’ve instructed us.”

Eren’s back began to ache, but he dare not move. 

King Cyryl shifted under his white-gold robes, head piece glinting as the beads swung over his face. “You are dismissed,” he waved towards Eren. 

He completed the bow and backed out of the room silently, only turning once out of sight. After stretching his back ever so slightly— ensuring nobody was around to catch it—he made haste to return to the boiler room where all the teas and remedies were laid out for mixing. He would confirm that Lady O, the head of the Vindicate, need not more help. 

As soon as he faced her, eyes wide, she waved him off much like King Cyryl did, flashing a curt smile. Eren was to go back to his chambers to sleep—to read and rest. He’d been on task seven days a week, 14 hours a day, working a shift almost twice as long as a regular Vindicate servant. He could feel the exhaustion in his feet and fingers. 

Eren decided to take the main hallway back to the servant’s quarters, padding down the painted length silently. Just as he was passing the opening in the corridor that led to the lush courtyard, a strong hand gripped his arm painfully and tugged him to the left. His form went fumbling into the doorway, robes swishing about, but Eren made no noises. 

“Eren!”

He turned to the familiar figure before him, a fellow servant. Eren’s eyes hardened, and he removed the hand from his own arm in favor to hold the other’s in place firmly, a bit angrily. 

“Ymir! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

They both looked around restlessly, attentive. They’d be punished if caught congregating. 

“You have to come with me,” Ymir said, hair flowing in the breeze with a certain beauty that didn’t belong to servantfolk. “Somebody’s arrived.”

Eren thought back to the conversation he had overheard moments before, King Cyryl speaking of a ‘him’ and his ‘counterparts.’ He allowed himself to be pulled towards the Palace’s main entrance, placed beside her and hidden out of sight. 

He wasn’t sure why he was permitting himself to be taxied by Ymir, of all people. She was constantly slacking off, gossiping, and causing problems within the Vindicate. Additionally, Eren was of a higher rank in the Vindicate’s hierarchy—he should have been laying down the rules, scolding Ymir on her inappropriate behavior and ordering her to continue her daily chores. But all else fell away like a crumbling mountain when he spotted those entering through the main gates. Ymir grunted in amusement. 

There were three, the first in stark contrast to the rest. He rode in opalescent black clothing, whereas his company were clad in shining white. It was as if he was the inverted version of the two behind him; when his constituents had light, longer hair and darker skin, he had a stark black undercut and pure white skin. He was unamused, unbothered, eyelids heavy as his horse shifted weight. 

Ymir hit Eren on the arm, eliciting an alarmed response from her superior.

“What?” he spat in her direction, voice low and sharp.

“That’s him!” Her voice was already low and raspy, but as Ymir elected to whisper, it fell even lower on the grunge spectrum. Her voice was borderline masculine. 

“Who?” Eren coughed. He could feel Ymir’s eyes on the side of his face, looking for contact, but Eren stayed in place. His stare wouldn’t leave the obsidian-haired man’s visage—he was mesmerizing. He looked as though he was the moon flush against a silent, black night brighter than its stars of companionship. 

“The dark one. Legend has it he went cold because he was born in the Frozen River.” Ymir whispered. “He’s called the Stone Prince,” she scoffed. “Well, Prince Rivaille to any servant, I guess.” 

For just a split second, the Prince caught Eren in his alleged espionage, and the servant’s face burned as he ducked further into the bushes. Eren finally found the moment to look up at Ymir for answers, but provided nothing more about the man in specific.

“He’s the King’s immediate relative. A military man—a Captain, I think. Cyryl’s invited them to stay at the palace as all three are in our politics now, and the cold one’s royalty.” 

Eren peeked through the brush again, and found the new arrivals gone.

“Will they be living here indefinitely?” Eren prodded. Ymir was always the one who not only listened to the insecure whispers of the grapevine, but expanded it even further towards its next set of ears. She must know. 

“Word of mouth suggests nothing otherwise.” Sure enough. 

Eren sighed, standing up and straightening out his robes.

“I don’t know why you drag me off for such childish events. Get back to work,” he scolded, holding in his curiosity. Ymir looked at him, incredulous at his mercurial mood.

“I know you’re just saying that to cover up whatever questions that still linger on your stiff tongue,” she said, gesturing towards her superior. She turned to leave in an angular motion. “You’ll be back!” She yelled, face turned over one shoulder. 

Eren fanned himself in the breeze, stretching out his legs. He was sure this would be all the talk for the next week. Sure enough, it was. 

Day in and day out, he had a pointed Ymir on his heels, determined to take up every scrap of Eren’s precious time to give him unwanted information on the next new thing the blonde Commander had for supper, or where the female Commander was found prodding the ill village people—or, or how many hours of sleep the Stone Prince got the night prior! 

It was exhausting. After the second week of the same, persistent gossip, Eren had trained himself into a sort of lull when he heard his name. After all, nobody save Ymir called him by his title unless mail was trying to reach his quarters. It was an uncommon thing, being a servant and being called by your name—even more uncommon within palace walls, much less the Vindicate. Dare he say it was even unnecessary. 

Thus, a few days later, Eren didn’t bother turning around when his full name was spoken behind him. Instead, he continued preparing the Astronomer’s treatment. 

“Eren.” He didn’t even think twice—he’d barely even heard the sequence of syllables. Granted, the voice did sound different, but Ymir had always had a strange voice. It was one of her few charms. 

He shrugged mentally and went on about his chrysanthemum powder. The royal Astronomer had been rambling about these horrible, relentless migraines that had been raging through his forehead and neck for the past two days. After nearly fifteen minutes of the man verbally assaulting Eren with about thirty different synonyms for the word “painful,” the servant interrupted and offered to make him something to soothe the pain, and— There it was again. 

“Eren Jäger.” 

This time more clinical, with his surname. He startled himself out of his operations and turned around slowly. “Oh,” he cleared his throat, poising himself politely as he met stern eyes with Lady O. “I-I apologize, Lady O, I hadn’t noticed you.” He bowed low, filled with respect. Her entourage of servants and apprentices stared down at Eren from their beautiful yet stern assembly. “I trust I did not keep you long?” 

“Eren Jäger,” she repeated, dismissing the pleasantry with a small wave, “you will no longer be serving King Cyryl and his advisors.” 

Eren did his best not to show the confusion on his face, but failed as he witnessed two servants exit from behind Lady O and take over the Astronomer’s remedy. When Lady O didn’t speak, Eren inquired to fill the silence. “May I ask why?”

“You have been reassigned to one of the militiamen, by direct orders, and are to serve by his feet day and night.” She paused, throwing a scrutinizing gaze in his direction. Eren felt exposed, her actions sparking an even larger wave of confusion to wash over him. “If he orders you to bathe him, ask at what temperature he prefers his bath and draw the tub. If he wants to be clothed, request what his desired color is for the day.” She continued, voice calm and void of emotion. “Anything you are asked of, you must complete with poise and purpose in order to represent yourself upon the reputation of the Vindicate. This will be your sole assignment until further notice.”

Eren was handed a tray clad in a teapot and two cups, everything in black cast iron except the silver platter itself. “You will be shown to his room. Address him as Prince Rivaille and serve his tea. Afterwards, await further instruction from your new master.” 

Eren looked at her, unenlightened, but her face didn’t even twitch towards him. 

Two more female servants grabbed him by his under arms and pulled him forwards. He allowed the motion but he didn’t look away from Lady O until after she said not to speak unless spoken to. Immediately thereafter, they turned a corner and Lady O disappeared. 

Eren was forced to stare forwards. His nerves bubbled up in his stomach. He was going to be serving the Prince. The Stone Prince. Eren shivered; he was terrified. What if he was relentlessly and violently demanding? What if he hurt Eren? Or, what if he was frozen-solid and incapable of being placated? Or even worse. What if Eren was turned away, stripped of his service—all because the Stone Prince couldn’t dare accept a male servant. He absolutely did not have anything outside the Vindicate walls. What would he do? 

Eren shut his eyes as he was dragged through the beautiful halls, inching closer and closer to his new demise. How would Prince Rivaille affect him? Would he freeze, captivated by his beauty? Or fill up with too much energy, spilling the hot tea over his hands? What if he tripped into him, or had to bathe him? 

Eren couldn’t think about this now, especially because they were nearing a large set of gold-plated double doors, signifying a royal’s room. Eren felt like yelling. What’s Ymir going to do when she finds out? 

The servants dropped a wide-eyed Eren abruptly, knocked on the door twice, and swiftly left him standing there. Fumbling with the silverware, it was almost unrecoverable until he heard the doors open, immediately straightening his back and soothing his face, gripping the silver platter tight as though his life depended on it. The doors opened to reveal a very strong-looking councilman dressed in regular green robes, his hair pulled into a bun with a large mesh hat stretching a far diameter across his head. He glanced at Eren, who was feebly standing there, and his face softened slightly. Eren didn’t speak, only bowed lowly towards the man. 

The man beckoned him inside in a motion that said “Come in, the prince has been waiting.” He moved aside. Eren was almost afraid to step foot into the Prince’s chambers, heart swelling and pushing dense blood into his veins in strangled anticipation. It felt strangely intimate.

He swallowed thickly, willing his feet to move into the heart of the room. Words couldn’t describe how beautifully embossed and adorned the room was with precious metals and paints, along with expensive silks and chiffons for someone of such regality. Eren had served the king in his chambers before, but had never experienced the guest side of the palace; the jade accents of each corner drastically made a difference, almost leaving Eren speechless in the midst. Steadily, he approached a large sheen of thin black chiffon. It was made out of the same looking fabric that graced the green-robed man’s hat, yet it was just a bit more transparent, the shapes and silhouettes behind it barely bleeding through in detail. Eren slowed before the apparition and tried to make out the man behind it, heart racing in his chest, but much to his own surprise his hands stayed firmly in place, holding the tray. 

“Your highness, the new attendant is here to serve you.” The green-robed councilman spoke softly, as though he was afraid to wake the royal. Eren looked over at him and found him bowing, so he himself made haste and followed suit, bending his back at a ninety degree angle whilst still holding the tea tight. 

Something shifted behind the curtain, and a voice soft like velvet, yet cutting like stone, sliced through its mesh fabric. “Yes, bring him forth.” 

Eren almost choked. The Prince knew he would be male? How? Was it requested? In fact, it must have been—Eren was the sole male servant in the palace. 

He delicately rounded the transparent panel and bowed deep once again, eyes rolling over the royal’s face, purposefully avoiding eye contact. Prince Rivaille’s countenance was as blank as a marble slab, clear of any emotion. He looked directly upon the servant, holding him in his bow until he spoke again. 

“Tea?”

Eren straightened his back and set the tray upon a small stool on the Prince’s left. His rib cage rattled with a fast heartbeat, fingers flitting between the teacup and the kettle in ephemeral movements. To his surprise, he poured the deep purple liquid into the cup without error. 

Hm. Taro. The Prince had ordered Taro tea. 

To a member of the Vindicate, royals’ preferences were a way to keep tabs on their master’s personal lives. Taro signified practicality and rigidity, something abundantly present in the Stone Prince’s cool visage. 

Eren lifted the cup and placed it in his left palm, holding his arm steady with his right hand at the elbow, bowing towards Prince Rivaille. The cup lifted from his palm, and Eren immediately retreated to the right-hand wall of the quarter, back against it with his eyes trained on the floor. 

The Prince remained behind the dark mesh, his black robes and hair blending right in like ink in a black cup. His small silhouette was barely visible, so much so that Eren had only just realized how small the Prince was from the corner of his eye. What was he? 5’5”? 5’2”? He couldn’t be taller than that. How on earth was this man a part of the militia when he barely stood taller than a large blade? Nevertheless, he made up the lack of intimidation in height with his perpetual apathy. He simply looked frozen, just as Ymir described him. Terrifying, but captivating all the same. 

“Councilman, you’re dismissed.” His deep voice graced the large space of his room, pushing the councilman out the doors in one swift movement. Eren watched as his robes escaped the close of the exit just in time. 

They were now alone, in silence.


	2. Knowhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter! I had a lot of fun writing this one. Let me know what you think:) enjoy.

Had Eren gone deaf? 

The servant and the monarch steeped in silence for such a interminable amount of time that Eren almost couldn’t be sure. Unable to hear the gusts and whistles of the wind within the palace, he began to question the architecture of Prince Rivaille’s room. Was it soundproof?—though, more importantly, was that even possible? 

Eren had served in the Vindicate for upwards of 19 years—he knew the ticks of the palace inside-out. He’d never felt such deafening removal from the outside world at any other location within palace grounds, not even the King’s quarters. But Prince Rivaille’s room felt as though cotton was stuffed into his ears, and—

“Would you stop that incessant noise?” 

Eren’s heart dropped, the Prince’s command coaxing him out of his mental digression. He looked around, hairs standing up on the back of his neck. Absolutely nothing was to be heard. A single pin hadn’t dropped. Before Eren could reply, the Prince continued in that harsh voice of his.

“You. Servant.” 

Eren looked up at him in distraught, eyes wide. “Highness?” He was suffocatingly nervous. 

The Prince rolled his eyes, looking down across the room at the pathetic little lump of an equerry cowering against the wall. He could have laughed. “So they haven’t given me a deaf maid, then,” he mused beneath his breath. “I’ve asked you, on multiple occasions, to stop tapping your fingers against the wall. Had you not heard me? Had you ignored me, your direct master?”

The Prince had apparently settled quickly, unrelenting to etiquette that accompanied sudden change. If it was possible for Eren to feel even worse, he did. He must have begun to fidget once his mind got lost in thought; extended periods of silence had proven to be dangerous for purposeless servants such as himself, which was why he normally kept himself busy with the apothecary. But Prince Rivaille’s rigidity didn’t leave Eren any wriggle-room in deciphering what was and wasn’t acceptable. It was only his first day, his first hour. He hadn’t had nearly enough time to settle in himself let alone survey the terrain. Lo and behold, he’d screwed up. Unbeknownst were the Prince’s predictive reactions, being the riddle he was—Eren couldn’t read him. He’d have to overcompensate for his seemingly minute malfeasance in garish displays of compunction towards the monarch.

Eren approached Prince Rivaille’s compound, falling to his knees before his obstructed sillhouette. As he bent himself forward, pressing his forehead to his fingers upon the cold ground, Prince Rivaille turned up his nose as if suddenly in the presence of a foul scent. He oozed hubris. 

“What of it?” He grunted, addressing Eren’s eager and dramatic gesture, playing with him like the master of a puppet’s strings, clearly amused by the milksop of a servant. A disgraceful, fetid male servant. He could practically smell fear wafting off of him. 

Holding his bow of utter penance, Eren spoke, somewhat muffled by his posture. “My sincerest apologies.” He dare not say more, clearly incapable of grasping what would set his majesty off at any given moment. On top of that, the Prince’s orders were law—if Eren pissed him off enough, he could be killed. His tongue could be cut out. He was undisputedly disposable, and, at that thought, he began to sweat. Additionally, Eren would rather save himself from further humiliation in front of the Prince. In retrospect, perhaps he had jumped the gun dropping to a deep bow. It was idiotically impulsive, but he was stuck now. 

Prince Rivaille made Eren horrifically nervous. He tripped over the implications of every word spoken and action executed by the monarch—even when he sat eerily dormant, Eren attempted to dissect the architecture of his chambers and the clauses around him in order to piece together the broken puzzle that was the royal’s obscure psyche. When mistaken, what else was he to do but beg for forgiveness? It was insufferably unacceptable, his mindless error. He needed to be brain dead, only living to follow orders. In all honesty, that was probably his only lifeline. Showing the Prince utmost respect in this manner would definitely make Eren spineless against the Prince, which had to be a good thing. Eren wanted to make it easier for all parties involved rather than stir the pot for his pride. There was only so much room for austerity in the world, and the Prince soaked up enough for both of them. But still, Eren didn’t know the Prince like he’d known the former King Benedict, thus Prince Rivaille was en mass a wild card. A gamble. 

“Speak up.” The Prince’s voice was guttural; something shifting within him—something carnal. His soldier showed, and Eren began to think his display of inferiority would cater seamlessly to the temper looming ominous over him. 

Thus, Eren tried—really tried—to choose his next words carefully as to not damn his chance further to hell. As if his tongue be cursed, the urgency of the matter had him speaking before thinking twice. “I-I’m sincerely sorry, Stone Prince! It won’t happen again!” He squeezed his eyes shut, forehead undoubtedly turning red as he pressed it further into the ground in brace. 

The room entered an unfamiliar state of silence, the air charged. Toil was brewing within the Prince like the contents of a witch’s cauldron. As fabric ruffled and footsteps fell, Eren remained still in his apologetic posture, readying for the Prince’s response. 

“What,” a slippered foot came into harsh contact with Eren’s right shoulder, lifting him from his bow and throwing him forcefully backwards, anterior flush against the floor. “did you call me?” 

The loud smack of Eren’s spine colliding with the ground resounded through the room along with a small whimper. 

Eren panicked, pinned to the floor by the Prince’s foot. He was easily five inches taller than the monarch, yet the strength emitted by his form overpowered him with ease. Eren knew he wouldn’t be able to move even if he tried. 

“Y-your highness,” Eren choked out, face in anguish. He knew lying was a lost cause, but how was Eren to know that the Prince’s pseudonym was negative? Ymir certainly didn’t relay that message in depth, and poor Eren was clueless about his new lord! 

The Prince’s visage was high above his own, still sullen and cold as ever, but dusted with remote traces of rage. He was backlit, painted like some deity of murder, the only light coming from the reflection of his stark white face. Black robes fell around him towards Eren’s body. 

“No you didn’t,” the foot on Eren’s shoulder pressed harder, Prince Rivaille’s eyes flashing, “Answer the question truthfully, mindless brat, and maybe your worthless likeness will be spared.” Prince Rivaille tched at the servant, headpiece dangling in the aftermath of sudden movement. 

Eren was now forced to turn in the direction of his battered shoulder, fighting the urge to bring vocal volume to his pain. After all, nobody would likely hear him save the Prince, and Eren couldn’t be sure his cries of pain wouldn’t edge the violent man on. The Prince bore down harder, eliciting an immediate response from the servant. 

“Stone Prince, your excellency, I called you the Stone Prince, I-I’m, I’m sorry—I“ 

The Prince didn’t let Eren finish. Instead, he bent down to bury his hands in the fabric encasing Eren’s chest, bringing him to his feet and flinging him like a rag doll towards the exit in one dominant gesture. He fell hard, sliding on the wood towards the doors, scrambling to get up, but before he could show more signs of penance, Prince Rivaille turned his back. “Get out of my sight,” he seethed, standing with his hands clasped behind his back.

Pushing off of his left arm, Eren stumbled quickly to his feet in a fit of nerves and pain. 

Even though the Prince couldn’t see him, Eren bowed deeply and backed out of the room, letting the heavy doors shut behind him silently. As soon as he rounded the corner, he broke into a full sprint towards his quarters, grasping at his shoulder and holding back tears. Never had a monarch laid their hands on him in his time at the Vindicate. Not once. Eren was held in regard as the most discreet and controlled servant in his division—what had gotten into him? How did he deserve this? 

He was lucky enough not to see anyone before he fell into his closet-sized room, shutting the single door behind him. Atop his thin bedding, Eren had trouble finding a match to light. Night had fallen during his time in Prince Rivaille’s room, and Eren now nursed a very painful shoulder, making his navigation through the dark more difficult than usual. The plethora of conflicting emotions taking residence in his mind had absolutely nothing better to do than well up in his tearful eyes. He couldn’t see for the life of him. 

Only quiet sobs escaped his lips. He was forbidden from releasing the loud ones, so he buried them deep in his heaving chest, attempting to hold his breath. He contemplated not lighting a match in favor of wallowing away silently in the night of the full moon, letting the preternatural tides of his emotions crash over him in jutted waves; but he had a livelihood to maintain. God forbid he neglect his shoulder now only to serve the consequence of incompetence in the Vindicate later, losing his life’s work, housing, and meals. He’d have to become a beggar. 

As hard as it was to believe, his life could be astronomically less bearable. 

Managing at last to light the candle, Eren found himself sitting in front of a tall mirror—a gift from Lady O. His reddened face was damp and contorted within the small flame’s dancing shadows—ugly hope in rancid despair. 

Staring into his own reddened eyes, he went to work undressing his right shoulder, left hand hanging limp beside his kneeling frame. It hurt to even move the fabric that clothed it, let alone touch the skin itself. His robe hung off his shoulder, exposing his collar bone from his neck to where it converged with the scapula. Painted a deep bluish-red was the outline of the Prince’s foot. Had it not been so excruciatingly tender, Eren could have appreciated it for artistry. In fact, who was to say it wasn’t beautiful in an anguish-ridden sort of way?

Between cries, Eren pressed a finger into the mark, noticing how the pain arose and the skin changed color. It would definitely be badly bruised by sunrise, but he could move it well enough, so returning to work the next day wouldn’t be too profuse an impediment.

Hitting his bedding hard, Eren sighed, eyes closed. His mind raced to decrypt the night’s events with the alien monarch.

He thought of Ymir, and how she, of course, breathed folly whispers into his head. Of course Eren, of all people, was assigned to serve and treat the very Prince that made him so indescribably nervous. It was kismet, his actus reus towards the royal.

Drifting off into dreams of ponderance, Eren fell victim to sleep, cradling his battered shoulder.


	3. the morning after pt1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven’t posted in a while! Here’s a short chapter I conjured up the resolve to post since stay-at-home orders are driving me a bit stir-crazy.   
> Enjoy

The temperature steadily descended in Prince Rivaille’s chambers as a frosty chill crawled its way into his room, soundlessly slithering through the cracks in the passageway Eren had just closed. Its tendrils wafted up Rivaille’s spine, biting at his skin through the thin fabric of his dressing robes and edging him close, pushing him to toe the thin line girding his subconscious. It was only so flexible.

The monarch was enraged, though not in the sense that brought heat to his face and blood to his brain; he was infuriated, replete with dense anger that made his blood run cold, pumping sheer, indiscriminate wrath into every vein of every artery, each voluntary muscle in his body pulled taut. His teeth ached so strenuously beneath his clenched jaw that it was almost a miracle they didn’t crumble against one another. Standing there like the man suspended in a marble block, eyes wide shut, the Prince was locked away within his own physical form. He remained frozen in place; cold to the touch, serene to the senses. If he were to cede to the desolate cold, or pick the rusted lock fastened around his nerves, his stature would deteriorate and leave his sense in the sediment of his eroded sculpture. He’d seek blood, shred carrion and hail carnage to anyone in his path, oblivious to their identity let alone their aura, their soul. Hell would be to pay for the people. For him.

Warm, deep, red fluid. Something he didn’t possess nor feel writhing within himself, only aware of it once it’s plasma coated his hands slick. Then, and then only, would he awake. Would he? It mustn’t be answered. Never.

Icy, jagged water sloshed within his lungs with each and every breath. He was beneath the river again, eyes sealed shut by microscopic icicles, long black hair flowing above him in the frozen current. Only crushed beneath the unfathomable dead weight of the river could he be free, endowed with the gift of sight. 

He was in control, staring at the current flowing ahead of the present.

With a singular shiver, Prince Rivaille awakened, eyes wide. Standing motionless for a few moments longer, he allowed his muscles to regain possession of voluntary contractions. Though he’d succeeded in narrowly escaping it this time, the Prince’s toil had been perilously errant ever since the Monarch change. It kicked up countless dangerously suppressed memories of those days. Flashes of woven baskets, pebbles, banks of sediment, shears of hair, sullen eyes, and water—eons of it. Helplessness was never more an option. Though the majority of the population was blind to the Prince’s inner machinations coupled with the artistically concealed cracks in his guise, Hanji, one of his right-hand confidants, could sense whenever his reality faltered, and recently, she’d been bouncing off the walls teeming with such overstimulation. The Prince was weak, the weakest she’s ever seen him.

Indeed, Hanji herself was one of the few reasons the Prince accepted residence from King Cyryl in the first place. Koryo Palace was known for its extensive Vindicate—packed with the finest healers, masseuses, remedies, and caretakers—and Hanji had used Koryo’s resources to nurse her poor philosophical subjects back to health more than a handful of times. She had a feeling that Prince Rivaille, the temperamental man no one was capable of caring for, could be placated here in his time of boundless stress. 

Well, look what good that’s done. 

Finally trusting himself enough to regain operant domain over his physical form, the Prince silently conveyed himself to his quarter’s sleeping room, where he undressed and retired for the remainder of the moonlit night. 

Just as the sun barely kissed Koryo’s distant horizon, Eren was preparing porridge and tea for the Prince, fighting back any remote expression of pain. He avoided using his left shoulder at all costs, banishing its purple and green mangled watercolor to the strict confines of his mind, little more than a memory. He wouldn’t give it a second thought, nor would he pronounce it as malfeasance against the Royal Decrees of Servant Conduct. Though they did protect members of the Vindicate from cruel and unusual punishment, it was commonly known that it’s codifications were not in practice within Koryo Palace’s walls. Servants were mere rats feeding off of fallen scraps. 

Eren was struggling, however, with the general procedures of his everyday life. Getting dressed, for example. Looking presentable was elusive when tying knots and wrapping robes proved extraneous for his nearly immobile left arm, and the whole ordeal was even more frustrating knowing that “blending in” was of the utmost importance in serving royalty. The less ruckus made, including that of color and fabric, the easier the job. Even now, robes tussled every so slightly around his waist, far too much of his neckline exposed, Eren was trembling out of fatigue. His performance was gone from whole to less than half, undoubtedly an omen of hardship to come. 

As he poured scalding water steadily into the Prince’s kettle, he nearly dropped the boiler, almost shattering the royal heirloom in the process. 

“Jesus, what is wrong with you?” 

Eren inhaled sharply. Since when was he startled on the daily? “Ymir.” He spoke lowly, greeting her in the most nondescript manner possible. “Lower your voice, how many times must I scold you on the same things.”

She approached Eren and leaned against the counter, to his left, and looked at him deeply with those judgmental eyes. “Hush.” Her thin brows furrowed. “Nobody’s even awake yet, who’s gonna hear me?” 

“That’s precisely the reason you need to shut up.” Eren’s eyes flashed in mild reproach, emotions running high. 

Ymir raised her hands defensively, taken aback by Eren’s sudden deflection. “Damn, Eren I was just trying to check up on you—you were locked away all last night; I couldn’t find you. Why are you getting so prickly all of a sudden?” Her hand reached out and jabbed at Eren’s left arm firmly, but playfully, a sorry attempt at drawing him out of his upright shell.

He flinched before she came in contact, and once her long fingers sunk into his left shoulder’s skin, Eren’s nervous system made haste in releasing a breathy cry, cradling his shoulder once again. 

Ymir scoffed, at first amused by Eren’s reaction, but upon second thought she grew alarmed. Grunting in query, she sunk to her knees next to where Eren fell crumpled beside the counter. “What, Eren what’s happened? Can’t take a hit? God, I didn’t even punch you, what’s wrong?” Eren bit his lip, pressing his right hand against his shoulder hard, as if letting go would cause it to detach from its socked. Ymir landed her blow smack dab in the middle of the swampy bruise. Maybe it was even broken. She was generally horrible at gauging her strength in the first place, and marry an overbearing jab with a battered shoulder and you get a very pained Eren curled on the floor of the Vindicate at dawn. Nevertheless, the resiliently dedicated servant stood up, stealing himself, and continued on with the Prince’s breakfast. If he didn’t move fast, he’d be late, and God knows what punishment that would provoke. Slowly, Eren regained his composure, removing his hand from his shoulder as Ymir finally rose to join him, looking at him expectantly. 

“What the hell?” Barely a whisper. 

Eren looked around, finding this particular sector of the apothecary eerily and unnaturally deserted. He met eyes with Ymir again, and ceded to her inquisition, sighing sharply with his eyes closed in surrender. Might as well share his burden, no matter how risky it was. For this matter he proceeded in silent communication. Thus, his fingers found one end of his robe’s sloppily-tied knot, placing it in her hand. Pulling a string of his own, he motioned for her to do the same, and sooner than later his top was falling around his toned waist like a discarded towel after a bath. 

Ymir’s eyes immediately located the blotch on his shoulder sculpted in the shape of a royal’s boot. Her eyes flashed, mirroring the depiction of Eren’s just moments before. 

“Who did this to you?” Her voice was grave. Eren felt uncomfortable and immediately covered himself, unable to take her verbal and visual scrutiny at once. 

“It’s nothing, Ymir, it was an accident—“

“Eren, I might be new, but I’m not fucking blind. You look like you were used as a foot mat. For a Monarch.” Eren turned from her and returned to the meal—no doubt falling cold by now. Her words splashed his face and trickled downwards like discarded raindrops on a wagon’s windows. He could hear her, feel her even, but he was unable to absorb what she spoke. “Who did this to you.” 

Her voice no longer lilted in question; she was now demanding information. 

Gathering the trays as best he could without the use of his left arm, Eren faced Ymir once more, beginning his closing remark. “Ymir, I don’t have time for this right now—“ he turned and started his trek towards the Prince’s quarters, treading sordidly down the hallway. “I have to deliver the Prince his breakfast.” Eren didn’t turn around, refusing to see her connect the dots. He let her disappear behind the circuitous architecture of the Vindicate, trekking towards the Prince. 

His stomach was as heavy as a boulder. He really had no idea what to expect, and, frankly speaking, he was slightly afraid of the Prince after this unfortunate ordeal.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first ever published fan fiction, and my first SNK fan fiction ever. I’ve been writing since around 2016 but never had the courage to post. Hopefully this will be fun for me and you all reading! 
> 
> This fan fiction is HEAVILY based upon the setting of royalty in the Goryeo era, a Korean kingdom founded in 918. I was inspired to write this after watching Scarlet Heart: Ryo, so I am by no means an expert on the culture and propriety, however I will be infusing a lot of ambiguous references to Goryeo culture and various other european/eastern european cultures within the royalty of the story. I hope to marry some aspects of SNK with SH:R. 
> 
> This will be a slow burn, and I do plan for some violence/angst between our main ship Ereri.


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